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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587884">Thinking Nothing at All</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Return to Oz [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Trauma, Dancing Lessons, Eliot/Fen mentioned, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Eliot Waugh, Picnics, Romantic Gestures, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Tailoring, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yearning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:08:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Things that Just Friends absolutely do, according to Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory:<br/>-Design a friend's custom-tailored outfit and plan out accessories you can gift to him<br/>-Take a carriage ride away from the palace together<br/>-Accidentally unload some emotional baggage<br/>-Have a secluded picnic<br/>-Private dance lessons<br/>-Maybe a little dip, not even naked or anything, just a little getting wet between bros.</p><p>... Yeah. Eliot is fucked.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Return to Oz [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thinking Nothing at All</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Quentin is the bright spot in everything. While Eliot and Margo deal with the court and the people and all the things that kings and queens are supposed to do, Quentin focuses all of his efforts on the wellspring problem, splitting his time between tireless researching and actually accompanying the team working on cleanup. </p><p> </p><p>    It means they spend a lot of their time apart, but the times that they’re together, Eliot feels the whole world sparkle. </p><p> </p><p>    It’s… a little bit of a problem.</p><p> </p><p>    But Quentin makes things feel <em> worth it</em>, sometimes, when Eliot feels himself start to low-key long for death’s cold embrace. Like, when Fen wants him to do his husbandly duty and he’d kind of rather do a swan dive from the top of the north spire, but he can remember being with Quentin, in the library. Can remember what it was to hold him-- yes, at a distance, for most of the dance lesson, but even so…</p><p> </p><p>    They really would be perfect together, if he hadn’t believed it before, that dance would have hammered it home. Well, not the dance exactly. Or, the dance, but also that moment where Quentin spaced out completely over the whole… leash idea. </p><p> </p><p>    It had been a combination of the memory of holding and touching Quentin during their informal dance lesson and the things his imagination did with the idea of Quentin on a leash that had gotten him through that night with an over-amorous wife. </p><p> </p><p>    Well, maybe she’s a normal wife and he’s just the wrong husband for her, but there’s nothing either of them can do about that, except… try, Eliot guesses. That’s what she asks him to do, just try, so that’s what he does. He tries. It’s not like he can’t, it’s not like he’s physically repulsed by her. He has a healthy libido, he just hates everything about the fact that he can only have sex with a woman and he can’t make himself attracted to her. But it makes her happy that he does his shitty best, and he likes that he has the power to make her happy with… It’s such a little thing, isn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>    Well, <em> it’s </em> not a little thing, which is what she likes about it, but the sex. It’s not such a big deal, he can deal. Does he sometimes want to scrub his itching skin all the way off? Sure, who doesn’t? But he can deal, it’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever dealt with.</p><p> </p><p>    Today, though… today it’s him and Quentin, and Margo isn’t thrilled with him fucking off for a day but she’s fair, she knows what he’s dealing with. And she knows she gets to call in a favor later-- hell, she could fuck off back to Earth for a while if she wanted to. </p><p> </p><p>    The fitting goes better than Eliot had envisioned, and he’d envisioned it going well. Quentin steps behind the screen with his arms full of silk and suede, and he emerges… <em> radiant</em>. The soft grey suede of the trousers hug his legs, and the waistcoat emphasizes the shape of him, trim and masculine and beautiful… he looks every inch the king. With the boots, with the poets’ shirt of diaphanous pale blue silk… not as heavily frilled as the ones Eliot had taken to, he’d considered Quentin’s tastes when selecting the fabrics, the cut, the style… but fine enough for a ball, if accessorized right. </p><p> </p><p>    “What do you think?” He asks, breathless. Quentin tugs the simple ruffle of silk down around his hand, like it was the sleeve of his hoodie, holds the rest of himself still so the royal tailor can pin the very few necessary alterations in place. </p><p> </p><p>    “I like this. Um… except… can I get something…” Once his other arm is freed up, he wraps a hand around his wrist, rubbing at his arm with a slight furrow to his brow. “Like… I don’t know if, um, if you think vambraces would be too much?”</p><p> </p><p>    “No such thing as too much.” Eliot shakes his head. “Is there more of this suede I can take?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Oh-- Sire, I assure you--”</p><p> </p><p>    “No, it’ll keep these naughty hands busy.” He gives the tailor a winning smile, takes the measuring tape and measures Quentin’s wrist, his forearm. “I’ll handle it. It’ll be the perfect touch. Oh-- yes. I will handle the finishing touches. And <em> you</em>--” He adjusts Quentin’s collar. “Will look <em> glorious</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Eliot…” Quentin looks away. “Um, thank-- thank you. I, uh, I should change back.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Right.” He gives Quentin one last unnecessary adjustment before stepping back, flashing him a little smile before he disappears behind the screen again. “I was thinking we might take a carriage out, a little ways… Benedict, um, Benedict showed me this map of the area, and I had this idea that we might-- If you haven’t eaten yet? We could just take lunch with us. To this, uh… secluded spot to practice.”</p><p> </p><p>    His heart is pounding. His heart has never <em> pounded </em> over a boy before-- well, over certain activities with boys, yes, and okay obviously once upon a time he had more heart-pounding feelings over boys just because boys were new, but… his heart has never pounded over asking a boy on a date before, not like this.</p><p> </p><p>    Not that this is a date. He’s a married man and he can’t cheat, he can’t kiss, he can’t date, so he and Quentin wouldn’t be going on a <em> date </em> , they’re just spending some time together. They’re friends, they’ve spent time together before. They’ve been on picnics before! And they’ve danced before, and that wasn’t remotely date-like, and none of the romantic fantasies Eliot can’t quite push out of mind make it any more a date, it’s <em> not </em>.</p><p> </p><p>    There’s absolutely no reason for him to feel this way. Even if it was a date, it’s not a date, Quentin had promised him they would. It’s not like he’s going to reject him, it’s not like there’s something to reject, it’s stupid to hang on for his answer feeling like he’s going to absolutely die if a boy doesn’t say yes, Eliot, of course, Eliot, I’d love to, Eliot. He’s being stupid.</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah?” Quentin says at last, voice a little high. “Cool, cool, yeah. A secluded spot to practice, that’s what we… agreed to. Yeah, um, I think taking lunch with us is a great idea.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Well, I’ll go and get that arranged, then, and-- and I’ll meet you! Out front, with the carriage. And… I’ll just let you finish changing in peace.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Cool, yes, great!”</p><p> </p><p>    At least if Eliot is a little… unduly flustered, over this whole thing, he’s clearly not alone. </p><p> </p><p>    He takes the fabric and the supplies he needs to his room first, gives the order to have a carriage waiting en route and changes while he’s at it. Something casual, that’s what this calls for. To prove it isn’t a date. If it was a date, he would be changing into something more elaborate, more <em> spectacular</em>, not into his clothes from back home, clothes which Quentin has seen him in before. </p><p> </p><p>    The clothes he was wearing the day he knelt before him, crown in Quentin’s hands, and suddenly his feelings were something he could not escape. They had been a possibility and then an inkling and then an inevitable, inexorable truth. </p><p> </p><p>    He ditches the tie and the overcoat and overthinks how many buttons to undo at his collar pretty much constantly as he gets a picnic hamper packed for them and hurries out to the carriage.</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin is already there, and he quirks a brow at Eliot’s change in wardrobe.</p><p> </p><p>    “For… practicing in.” Eliot shrugs. He wants to sweep in and offer his hand, but they have a footman who’s already there to help Quentin up into the carriage, to take the picnic basket and place it carefully within. </p><p> </p><p>    Eliot shows the driver the spot on the map where he wants the carriage to stop, before allowing himself to be helped to his own seat, where he smooths himself out as best he can.</p><p> </p><p>    “No, you look nice.” Quentin says, as the carriage lurches into motion. “I-- I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Well, thank you. You-- you looked really good in a little bit of color. Not that you don’t, without, but-- it brightens you up, that’s all. It makes you look like… I don’t know. What I always imagined.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Like what that you always imagined?” Quentin ducks his head, hair obscuring his face. Peeks through it with those big brown puppy dog eyes. </p><p> </p><p>    “Like I always imagined a prince out of a fairy tale.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Well, I--” He blushes and turns away, Eliot burns to reach after him, to take his chin and turn him back, to look at him head-on through the blushing and the demurring. “This isn’t exactly a fairy tale. And I’m not a prince. I’m only a king because you chose me to be one.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Hush. I did choose you to be a king. I see things in you, Quentin Coldwater.”</p><p> </p><p>    “And what if those things are a mistake?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Then the consequences will be mine to bear, I imagine. But I don’t believe I’m mistaken.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Eliot…”</p><p> </p><p>    “I said hush. I know what you’re worth.”</p><p> </p><p>    “What if I’m not? What if I’m not a hero?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Then you are still a king, Quentin Coldwater, and you are still my friend.”</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin does look up at that, something soft stealing over his face. “I-- I’m still working on saving magic. And… I won’t-- I won’t give up on that.”</p><p> </p><p>    “You don’t have to tell me.” Eliot shakes his head. “You love magic more than anybody. Look… maybe I don’t <em> know </em> that if anyone could save it, it would be you, maybe that’s something no one could know and maybe that’s mystical hero destiny bullshit we don’t need to get tripped up over, but… what I do know is, if anyone won’t quit the fight to save it, <em> that’s </em> you. And if I was the wellspring of all magic in Fillory, I’d take King Quentin the Stalwart over some… Mystic Hero of Destiny Bullshit. Maybe heroes come cheap. But you… you believe in things and you stick with them. And I know what you’re worth.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Wow.” He looks away again, hands fluttering. “El, could you maybe… say something to make me not want to, like, kiss you right now?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Oh, like ‘I have hepatitis’ or like ‘once I wet the bed at a fifth grade slumber party’? Ugh, sorry, no, neither of those is true. Oh, um, but one time I did fully projectile vomit at a Four H meeting. All over poor Mister Nuggets.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I’m guessing Mister Nuggets is a chicken.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Rooster. And… was. His tragic death has not been forgotten.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Did he die from the… the vomit incident?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Other way around, and I’m not sure what you know about chickens or about chunks blown, but whatever you’re imagining might have happened is probably impossible. You can’t vomit a chicken to death, that’s-- at the very least <em> highly </em> implausible.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I don’t know anything about chickens that have not been, like… breaded.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Mm, well, they have to get beheaded before they can be breaded.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Right. I mean, I read that they can still run around after that--”</p><p> </p><p>    “Oh, yes. Flapping and bleeding and frightening children, and then those children are told not to be sissies, and then those children are given axes and made to learn important lessons about life.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Shit.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I was eight.”</p><p> </p><p>    “That’s kind of young to… have to--”</p><p> </p><p>    “Not where I come from, so.” Eliot shrugs. Well, Quentin is definitely not thinking about kissing him now. And probably never will again, which is the goal here, since it’s not like they can… “Anyway, eight was a long time ago. Who even really remembers being eight?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah. Yeah, I mean… that’s, what, fourteen, fifteen years ago? Who even thinks about that shit?”</p><p> </p><p>    “I still-- I don’t even think about it.” He corrects himself, faux-breezy. What else could he say, that he dreams about it, sometimes? Dreams he’s back there, dreams about ‘don’t be a sissy’ and ‘I’ll give you something to cry about’? He’s said enough about his past for a lifetime already.</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin leans forward, but before he can say anything, before his hand can come to rest on Eliot’s knee, the carriage comes to a halt, and he rocks back into his seat, off-balance. </p><p> </p><p>    “I guess we’re here.” He says, looking down at his hands.</p><p> </p><p>    “Almost.”</p><p> </p><p>    The footman helps them down and brings out the hamper, which Eliot takes and passes off to Quentin. </p><p> </p><p>    “I’ll send word when we require you back here.” He waves a hand to the footman and driver. “Ah… your name is…?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Euchariah, Sire.”</p><p> </p><p>    “All right, well I will remember that.” Eliot nods. “How about you guys take the afternoon off until then? Do something fun.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Thank you, Sire.” He bows and scurries back to the carriage, and Eliot unrolls the map, leading Quentin confidently into the woods. </p><p> </p><p>    “So you really planned this all out, huh?” Quentin says, sticking close by as Eliot holds branches aside.</p><p> </p><p>    “I always plan when things are important.” </p><p> </p><p>    “Oh. And-- right. And it would… ruin this ball of yours, if I couldn’t dance.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Right. Can’t have that. I mean, Margo would b… very displeased.”</p><p> </p><p>    “And we wouldn’t want that.” He nods. </p><p> </p><p>    “We would not. Ah-- here!”</p><p> </p><p>    The spot is exactly as promised-- the woods open up onto a meadow, or at least a very meadow-y clearing, a river runs through, and it pools at this stretch, open and calm. Perfect.</p><p> </p><p>    Eliot spreads out the blanket he’d packed, and Quentin settles near him, lounging. The picnic is simple-- for all that they’re kings, he doesn’t have access to nearly as much in Fillory as he could have managed back on Earth. Still… Quentin’s enjoyment is suitable, and they relax. They forget about… well, they forget enough. Quentin finds shapes in the clouds, Eliot finds a four-leafed clover near the edge of their blanket, they keep their hands to themselves.</p><p> </p><p>    Mostly.</p><p> </p><p>    If Eliot has to tuck a lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear because it’s <em> distracting </em> him, he can hardly be blamed. If their fingers brush on the giving of the clover, that’s nobody’s fault. </p><p> </p><p>    “What’s this for?” Quentin flops back onto his back, holds the little clover loosely in a hand cradled against his chest.</p><p> </p><p>    “Luck, colloquially.” </p><p> </p><p>    “No, I mean-- why is it for me?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Because you’ll need it.” Eliot shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>    “The dance lessons are about get brutal?” Quentin laughs.</p><p> </p><p>    “I meant to help you clear the wellspring, but you know what, it couldn’t hurt.” He rises to his feet, offers Quentin his hand. “Show me what you remember. Come on, one-two-three-four, with me two-three-four. <em> I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got this feeling that won’t subside… I look at you and I fantasize… you’re mine tonight. Now I’ve got you in my sights</em>…”</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin isn’t great at dancing, true, but he remembers enough from the day before, follows along and keeps his arms locked and steady.</p><p> </p><p>    “With these… hungry eyes…” Quentin sings along a little weakly-- okay, ‘singing’ is a strong word for it, if he’s honest, but Quentin is focused on the dancing, Eliot doesn’t hold that against him. “I don’t know all the words to this song, got… hungry eyes…”</p><p> </p><p>    “<em>I feel the magic between you and I...</em>”</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin nearly rolls an ankle, but Eliot catches him before he can do himself any damage. </p><p> </p><p>    “Sorry. Sorry. Okay, we were-- where were we?”</p><p> </p><p>    “We’re going to go into your twirl, but give it a beat or two, make sure your feet are under you. You feeling all right?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I’m-- yes. I’m good to go, I’m going to twirl the fuck out of this bitch.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Damn right.” Eliot snorts. “Give it a moment and then when I bring our hands up, you’ll know what to do. Good to go?”</p><p> </p><p>    “All good.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Okay. You’re coming after me two-three-four and back two-three-four, and <em> I want to hold you so hear me out, I want to show you what love’s all about. Darling, tonight… Now I’ve got you in my sights</em>…”</p><p> </p><p>    He guides Quentin through it, does his own little twirl under Quentin’s arm despite the height difference. It feels good, dancing with Quentin, it feels right. Even with the stumbling-- maybe even because of it. It feels…</p><p> </p><p>    It feels like the stuff dreams are made of. A cute boy, short and coltish and eager just to be with him, like he always imagined. When he let himself imagine a perfect life, a Technicolor life, when he put himself heart and soul into flickering lights and celluloid daydreams, there would be a boy. Cute, and short. Who would look at him like he was <em> spectacular</em>. And when Eliot would hold out his hand, the boy in all his old daydreams would take it, and they would dance. Awkwardly at first, but he would be sure and he would be smooth and slowly they would fall into the rhythm together…</p><p> </p><p>    They would dance in front of everyone, that was always a part of the fantasy, an audience watching in rapt attention as Eliot and the boy of his dreams <em> dazzled</em>.</p><p> </p><p>    When he dips him, it isn’t the same surprise it was the first time, but Quentin’s eyes still sparkle just the same, his lips still part on a gasp.</p><p> </p><p>    On <em> Now did I take you by surprise </em> he gets Quentin spun out to face forward, and his voice dies away before he can say <em> this love was meant to be</em>, but his hand doesn’t falter as he guides Quentin’s arm into place, as he lets his touch glide down from elbow to ribcage to hip, and then over, up.</p><p> </p><p>    “What…” Quentin swallows. His heart hammers, the way Eliot’s had earlier, even with his hand below Quentin’s sternum he can feel it. “What do we do next?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>    “What, um… what else did you want to show me?”</p><p> </p><p>    Eliot lets his hands fall away, takes a step back, and Quentin immediately turns to face him-- and to see him kicking off his boots. </p><p> </p><p>    “Eliot?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Come on.” Eliot smiles, strips out of his socks, his waistcoat, his shirt. He still has the undershirt, and it’s not like Quentin has never seen him in a tee shirt-- he’s seen him in much less than that-- but it still feels like <em> something</em>. “Join me.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Oh-- no.” Quentin watches him back towards the water’s edge. “I mean, don’t we have to wait twenty minutes, or…?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Please?”</p><p> </p><p>    “I mean, there are probably rocks, or--”</p><p> </p><p>    “If your king commands it?” He wheedles, and that does it. Quentin swallows and strips down to jeans and a tee shirt, moves to take his hand.</p><p> </p><p>    “Shit, this water is freezing.” He hisses, but he follows Eliot deeper just the same.</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah, I’m kind of counting on it to be.” Eliot admits. “We’ll get used to it.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Tell me again why I’m agreeing to this?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Because it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Arms up, back straight, head high. Run through it with me again, if you can stay on your feet like this, you’ll do fine.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I don’t totally believe you on that.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I left my lucky clover back with our clothes.”</p><p> </p><p>    “That’s okay, I’ll be all the luck that you need. And back two-three-four, and up two-three-four, that’s it, move with me. You’re doing fine.”</p><p> </p><p>    “El, I--” But Quentin cuts himself off, and whatever he might have said, he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>    They wade deeper as they dance. They’re hip-deep when Eliot dips him this time, low enough for Quentin’s hair to get wet. Waist deep as Quentin turns, his back to Eliot’s front. When Eliot’s hand slides down to his hip, it dips below the water to do so, when it comes back up to spread wide across Quentin’s front, he leaves his shirt wet.</p><p> </p><p>    “When I step back,” Eliot whispers. “I want you to turn and face me, then hold for a beat. When I nod, come to me.”</p><p> </p><p>    “What am I doing, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Razzle-dazzle, baby.” His eyes drift closed for a moment, he drinks in the closeness the one way he can have it. “When I give you the signal, you just come to me. As fast as you can.”</p><p> </p><p>    He lets go, loath as he is to take his hands off of Quentin. He backs up carefully, putting some distance between them without losing his footing, his hands perform the familiar motions easily. The question is clear in Quentin’s eyes, but when Eliot gives him the nod, he rushes forward as quickly as the water will allow. </p><p> </p><p>    It’s Eliot’s telekinesis that really performs the lift, Quentin whooping and laughing and dripping as Eliot takes his hands off of Quentin’s waist entirely and he stays floating in the air just the same. He takes him by the waist again to bring him back down, and there’s no longer a respectable bubble of space between them, Quentin is <em> right there</em>.</p><p> </p><p>    “Are you really going to do that in front of everyone?”</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah. I-- I mean, if we don’t suffer one of those magical rolling brownouts right when I need it, I thought… I thought we would, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah. Okay.” Quentin shrugs. “I mean, I can’t believe you talked me into… this, so… yeah, yeah, why not? That was-- I want to do that again.”</p><p> </p><p>    “You do?”</p><p> </p><p>    He nods. “It was incredible. It was like… I mean, I was floating! And, like… um, it was like I could smell something sweet? And my whole body was warm even though I should have been cold? And like… there was something, like I could physically feel your magic, um… kind of soft, on my skin? Like it almost tickled but not quite. I-- I don’t know. It’s weird to try and put it into words, it’s, it was this… sensory experience. Like I can’t see it but I can tell you it’s purple, um… purple-orange like a sunset? It’s like if a sunset could pick me up and… I guess smell good. And for the purposes of this horrible explanation, sunsets are warm.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Well that just stands to reason.” Eliot nods, and tries very hard not to be completely emotionally compromised. “The sun is supposed to be more than a little warm.”<br/><br/></p><p>    “More than a little.” Quentin laughs. “So when it sets, it’s still… you know. A little bit. Comfortably warm.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Right, it would be.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I really-- Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Thank you.” He licks his lips. “Q? Could you… maybe, say something to make me not want to kiss you right now?”</p><p> </p><p>    “I think I can, yeah. But there’s no coming back from this.” He says seriously. “This is going to change the way you look at me forever.”</p><p> </p><p>    “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>    “You haven’t heard it yet. El, if I do what you’re asking me to do, you might never experience sexual arousal again.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Great, lay it on me.”</p><p> </p><p>    “See, okay, so… so you’re not the only one who grew up watching the same, like, eighties movies over and over again. Uh, and Julia and I, you know, we watched, like… she liked those kid adventure movies, The Goonies and shit, and of course I had, like… these cartoon versions of the Hobbit and the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and like… Labyrinth.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Mmm, the <em> area</em>.” Eliot nods. “Reminding me of Bowie in tights is not exactly a bonerkill.”</p><p> </p><p>    “I’m not done, do you mind? Um, Willow, Dark Crystal…”</p><p> </p><p>    “The Neverending Story? I did always like The Neverending Story.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Could you not interrupt? And like, anything with puppets. But it wasn’t just fantasy, even though obviously fantasy was, you know, big for us. We’d watch sci-fi, too. Um, and around high school, I got good at doing a couple of voices. You know, like, it would make Julia laugh. I could do just a couple of voices really well.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Okay…”</p><p> </p><p>    Quentin takes a deep breath, before going into his impression.</p><p> </p><p>    “<em>Eliot</em>…” He croaks.</p><p> </p><p>    “Oh my god.” Eliot’s shoulders start shaking, as Quentin reaches up and touches his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>    “<em>I’ll… be… right… here</em>…”</p><p> </p><p>    “That’s so much worse than I was imagining.” He laughs. </p><p> </p><p>    “Yeah, you don’t want to kiss me now.” Quentin says, with a faint blush.</p><p> </p><p>    “No, I could never.” Eliot lies. It’s entirely, pathetically possible that he’s never wanted to kiss Quentin more. He leads him back to the blanket, where they both spread out under the sun to dry a little. “Q? Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>    “Mm.” Quentin sighs, and closes his eyes. “Do you think it would be the end of the world if we took a nap?”</p><p> </p><p>    “As high king, I insist on it.”</p>
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